


delicate

by hoosierbitch



Category: White Collar
Genre: Awkwardness, Community: Sweet Charity, Dating, Multi, Romance, Strap-On, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-08
Updated: 2010-07-08
Packaged: 2017-10-10 11:14:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/99124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hoosierbitch/pseuds/hoosierbitch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first time that Neal kisses her they are alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	delicate

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Elke Tanzer (elke_tanzer)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/elke_tanzer/gifts).



> This started life as a fill for elke_tanzer's Sweet Charity prompt, "El's favorite strap-on." After six failed attempts to write something, I decided to try splitting it into two different stories. This is the one that turned into a story about the beginning of their relationship. The other one's just pegging porn, and should be up in a day or so! But, yes. I think I quite like how this one turned out! Thanks to Shannon and asimaiyat for the info and support, and thanks to afiawri for the insightful beta - all remaining mistakes are mine!

The first time that Neal kisses her they are alone.

Peter’s in the ICU recovering from surgery. There’s a hole in his shoulder. Stitched up, now, but there will be a scar above his heart. Another right below his shoulder blade. It had been so close.

Neal tastes like chapstick. Chapstick and hesitation, he leans in so slowly, a full in and out of breath brushing against her lips before the skin of him, the warm soft lips pressing against hers. Nothing more than that. Her hands don’t cup his face, his don’t tug her hips closer. Nothing more and nothing less than Neal Caffrey kissing her in the hallway of a NYC hospital, Peter barely breathing ten feet away.

He pulls back and she doesn’t stop him. Instead she leans against his shoulder. And he does hold her, then, his strong arms around her in an instant. He feels nothing like Peter, it’s nothing like how Peter’s broad chest and cheap suits feel under her cheek, it is not the comfort she craves but she accepts it. They wait together in the hallway, the same chapstick on both their lips. They wait for Peter to breathe easily so that they can, again, too. Wait for him to wake up and smile and bring them all back into balance.

“Is that – is that the stupidest thing I’ve ever done?” he asks her, and she has to think about it before she answers.

“Maybe,” she admits. “I’m not going to lie to Peter about it.”

“I wouldn’t want you to.”

“Neal.”

“Yes?”

“Was that more than just a kiss?” His breath against her skin, mint and a portabella Panini, warm and unsurprisingly familiar. Like they’d both been waiting for it.

“Yes,” he says, and they sit down under the glaring fluorescent lights, in horrible plastic chairs, trying to remember who they are without the weight of worrying for Peter squeezing their lungs and stomachs, the fear of his absence robbing them of rationality. “It was more than just a kiss.”

“Do you really want me?” It’s easier to be ready for him to say ‘no’ when they’re both wrinkled and exhausted and full of coffee. “Or am I just a replacement for Peter? Or for Kate?”

“I think,” he says, slowly, nurses walking past them, a patient shuffling by using her IV as a walking stick, the scent of sickness and medicine overwhelming the memory of his breath, fresh and familiar. “That I want you both. And it doesn’t have anything to do with Kate.”

She nods, and looks at the closed door of Peter’s room. “Good. That’ll make things simpler.”

“How?” he asks, and he sounds tired. Like he’s thought this through too many times and always thought he’d end up alone.

“You’re smart,” she says. “Peter likes smart.” He lets out a deep breath. She wonders how long he’s been holding it. “Peter likes _you_,” she clarifies, half an hour later when the doctors still haven’t come out of Peter’s room.

He slumps down in his chair and it brings his shoulder to the perfect height for her to rest her head. She licks her lips and tastes Neal, her eyes fixed on Peter’s door.

It’s easier, in that moment, to share the worry and fear and wait. Easier than the other nights – only seven in ten years, thank god – when she’d had to wait alone. She thinks – she thinks she could share Peter, with Neal. With Neal who loves so carefully, who worries so much, who feels so gracelessly. She thinks she could love him. She knows he loves Peter.

They wait for Peter together.

*

She brings Peter home by herself. Satchmo’s still at Yvonne’s, which is good, because she’s pretty sure a stiff breeze would knock Peter over much less an over-enthusiastic lab.

“Neal kissed me,” she says after she’s gotten Peter settled in bed, putting a cup of ice on the bedside table. “It was…nice.” Peter just blinks at her and she sets the back of her hand on his forehead like she’s checking for a fever but honestly she just needs to be touching him. Peter, here and hers and alive.

“It was _nice_?” he says, finally, after a few seconds where she thinks: _oh, this could end badly._

“Well, it was just for a second. It was a ‘reaffirming we’re alive’ kiss more than anything else.” She’s trying her hardest to pull off casual but he’s used to dealing with much better liars than her. She’s never really tried to lie to Peter before. She doesn’t like it. So she stops.

“Did you kiss back?” he asks, quieter, and she traces his cheek, rough with stubble, and looks him in the eye.

“I would have,” she says. “If he’d kept kissing me, I think I would have.” He blinks at her again and this time it’s not surprise – this time, it’s hurt. She’s seen him hurt too much too recently to be a part of causing more. “He wants _us,_ Peter. And I think – ” hesitation and mint and comfort, hours under fluorescent lights, the longest time she’d ever spent alone with Neal. The first time she thinks she’s ever seen him without his masks on. “What do _you_ think?”

“I’m not gay,” Peter says, which, honestly, wasn’t the first protest she thought she’d hear. Jobs or morality or Kate, sure, but not that.

“But it’s Neal.” Because maybe some kinds of beautiful, skin and soul deep, get to cross those lines.

“So - Neal’s gay?”

“Well, I don’t know if he’s gay or just gay for you – or bisexual, I guess it would be – we didn’t talk all that much.” There hadn’t been much to say. Not _I’m nervous_, or _he’ll be okay_ or _I’m glad you’re here with me._ They’d just sat next to each other and held hands and waited, and somewhere in the longest of hours, they’d kissed. “We were both worried for you.”

“He’s a _felon_,” Peter says. “He’s a felon, and he works for me, and he’s a – he’s a _he_, for Christ’s sake!”

“All true,” she says. “But do you want him?” she asks. Because that’s the one objection he hasn’t raised yet.

“I don’t know,” he says, and his eyes go distant and she wonders what moments of Neal he’s remembering. Chasing him or catching him or falling asleep with him on the couch, case files spread over both their laps. “I don’t know.”

*

Over the next week Peter peppers her with questions. Did she like kissing Neal, what exactly had he said, was this her version of a mid-life crisis because if so he’s totally getting a sports car – she answers his questions as honestly and patiently as she can.

He regains his strength and comes to his decision slowly. “If he’s serious,” he says – “If he’s serious and you’re serious and this isn’t some weird painkiller-induced hallucination, then – then, yes. Yes, we should give it a shot.”

*

Neal comes over for dinner a few nights later. He’s dressed in one of his classic suits and false confidence. He takes off his shoes and coat and hands her a bottle of wine without once meeting her eyes. She’s almost too nervous to eat, and it seems like the boys feel similarly because half an hour into the meal the bottle of wine’s empty but their plates are still full. Peter’s on her left and Neal’s across the table from them, and every so often his feet bump against theirs as he fidgets – it’s kind of nice. He looks calm as a cucumber above the table, sipping his wine, folding their napkins into fanciful creations – his ankles bump hers again, it’s nice to know he’s at least a little bit ruffled.

"So we should talk," she says. "About - you know."

"The ill-advised kissing in the hospital?" Peter interjects.

"It was nothing," Neal says, and she looks from him to Peter and sighs. They're going to have to train that fear out of him somehow. "Adrenaline. I would never do anything to come between you two - "

"We know you wouldn't," she says, and reaches for his hand. He doesn't give it to her. He's still staring at Peter.

"Can we just - pretend it never happened?" And she tries to look at him like Peter does - assuming that he's lying. Looking for the truth beneath, which is in the way he leans towards the door but doesn't let go of the edge of the table, she wonders when he started to hold on.

"What if we don't want to?" she asks. And Neal looks at them like - like he doesn't believe them.

"We want to date you," Peter says, and he sets his water glass down and it sounds like a gavel, a sentence, she can't hold back her giggle.

"Neal – fair warning: we're going to be utterly terrible at it. We haven't dated in _years_. And if Peter was hopeless at it ten years ago, I can only imagine what he'll do this time around - "

Peter shrugs, because it's true, he's utter rubbish.

Neal licks his lips and looks at them through lowered lashes and she loses her breath for a second. "You don't have to make me dinner every time you want to fuck me," he says, and she frowns, because that's not at all what this is about. "Honestly, I'm – I want this, too. I’m a sure thing." And his hand is at his throat, unbuttoning his shirt before Peter tells him to stop. He obeys instantly, freezing with his fingers tracing the dip between his collarbones, and she wonders if he'll obey Peter like that when they're in bed. She thinks he will.

"We're not asking you for sex," Peter says. "We're not looking for a fuckbuddy." She hadn't realized Peter knew what a fuckbuddy was.

"Then what _do_ you want?" And Neal doesn't look sexy. He's not trying to look anything. He looks young and scared and perfect.

"We want you," she says. "But we don't - we've never done anything like this before. Peter's never even been with a man before." Neal's eyes get a bit wider and she wonders if he's thinking of all the firsts he'll get to share with them. "You're both already so busy," she says, because she knew being the wife of an FBI agent would be hard, but she hadn't realized it would be so lonely. "I don't want to lose any more of Peter - but I – it might be nice to have both of you."

“Things don’t change at work,” Peter says, and Neal nods and she remembers how thin the line is that they’re walking on. “And – I guess the next question is – what do you want from us?”

Neal looks back and forth between them, confused. “You mean - sexually?”

“No, existentially,” Peter replies, and it must be a shared joke because they both smile. She would feel left out but she’s pretty sure they’re all going to have fantastic sex, so she’ll be able to put up with it.

“I want – ” Neal pauses and looks around their living room. At the stain on their second-best tablecloth, and the candles dripping over the candlesticks, at their pictures on the wall and Satch conked out on his pillow in the corner. “I can’t make any promises,” he says, even though Peter just asked him for his demands. “I can’t promise that I’m not going to screw everything up, between us, between the two of you. I want – I want this,” he says, and somehow encapsulates their house and life and love in one word. “I want it, but I don’t know how to have it.” He’s never had it before, she thinks, and loves Peter even more for bringing this young man into their home.

“Dating,” Peter says. And Neal nods and she wonders what they're supposed to do now.

"Dessert?" Their plates are still full of pasta, but she's got cheesecake in the fridge and she could really go for some comfort food.

"So, are we – does this mean we’re going _steady_?" Neal asks, when their plates are empty. She laughs and leans over to wipe some crumbs off of his cheek.

"I guess so,” she says.

“I can’t wait to post all about it on my blog," Peter says, in his best middle-school-girl impression. Which is pretty terrible.

“You don’t even know what that means,” Neal says.

“Sure I do,” Peter replies. “I facebook!”

“_Facebook is not a verb_,” she hollers from the kitchen. She can practically hear Peter roll his eyes, then Neal’s quiet laugh, and she smiles.

The second time that Neal kisses her, Peter’s watching, and honestly, it’s more that she’s kissing Neal than the other way around because he’s too scared to move. He’s breathing fast and his hands are fidgeting so quickly it looks like they’re shaking – maybe they are, she thinks, watching his eyes flit from her to Peter, from her lips to her eyes, to Peter on the couch.

Neal’s so nervous. So nervous that he looks at Peter while she kisses him, stays frozen until Peter says _fuck_ and touches himself through his slacks. Neal gasps, once. Closes his eyes and sobs like he’s been starving for air, starving for this, and he kisses her back –

And when his attention is finally focused back on her and he really _kisses_ her she realizes how nervous he’d been. Nervous that it all might be a trick, or a game – so afraid that they would take it away. And she realizes how lonely he must be.

Their second kiss is better than their first because she slips her tongue between Neal’s lips and licks at the soft flesh of his mouth, the smooth curve of his teeth, kisses him literally breathless.

Their third kiss is the best, and she’s claiming it as hers even though all she does is sit on the end of the couch and watch. Neal leans so carefully over Peter, standing in front of him and bracing himself on the back of the couch to get closer, because Peter’s not supposed to strain himself. And Peter – who’s never been a patient man – doesn’t move. Peter waits for Neal to lower himself down – and it’s beautiful, their first kiss. It’s tentative and awkward and relatively chaste. It’s life changing.

Because there’s something about them together that makes sense. They _fit_. And she fits, too, she thinks, as fiercely as she can, because her momma taught her how to stand her ground and stake her claim and Peter’s hers and so is this, this first moment, the small moan that escapes out of one of them – she can’t tell who – and then the growl that she knows is Peter’s. This moment, that kiss, these men – they’re _hers. _

Neal pulls back and hangs his head like he’s exhausted. Exhausted and – and relieved. Peter puts a hand on Neal’s shoulder. And Neal sits down in the middle of the couch, letting Peter direct him even though he doesn’t have the strength to enforce it. El wraps her arm around his shoulders and lets him rest his head against her, this time.

_This might work,_ she thinks, watching the smile that blossoms on Peter’s face, listening to Neal’s breath even out. _This might actually work. _

*

On their first date they go out for Italian, and it’s sort of hilariously awkward. Peter's unreasonably nervous that everyone will know what they're doing and spends most of his time glaring at the waiters and any diners unfortunate enough to get seated near them. Neal flirts the like his life depends on it (she's never seen bruschetta eaten in a sexy way before - Neal makes it work, but barely). And she - she just can't think of anything to say.

It's stilted and awkward and horrible, but when they leave the restaurant (Neal pays, Peter examines his credit card, and then the contents of his wallet, and then his signature on the bill) she still feels more giddy than nervous.

She drives them back to June's. Peter is not allowed to drive when they go out together. She does not have a _death wish_, and Peter is incapable of holding a conversation in the car without turning to stare at whoever he's talking to.

"I've got coffee," Neal says from the backseat after she pulls up to the curb. "If you want to come up."

And she looks at Peter and Peter looks at her and they both shake their heads. "Not this time," Peter says. But he's the one who reaches over the seats and twists himself around to kiss Neal before letting him go. She could watch them kiss for hours. She's going to; as soon as they figure out whatever it is they still have to figure out.

She rolls down her window and Neal bends down to kiss her before going inside. It's chaste, much tamer than the kiss he gave Peter, but it's on the lips, at least, so she doesn't grab him by the hair and demand another one. They're on a public street. Anyone could be watching. "Thank you for dinner, Neal."

And he smiles at both of them and cocks his head and says "It was my pleasure," and then he turns around and she and Peter watch him walk up the stairs. He looks good in that suit. To be more specific - his ass? Is _fine_.

"He's got really great coffee," Peter says.

"Next time," she agrees. "Definitely."

*

But their next date is to the dog park, and she and Neal are both covered in mud by the time they're done. "What am I going to do with you?" Peter grumbles, spreading towels down on the seat. "Gonna have to get the car _dry-cleaned..._"

And Neal kisses him and then she does, too, and by the time they all separate they have to put another towel down on Peter's seat. They both kiss Neal in the car before they drop him off, with tongue, tongue and his hands on her neck, hers in his hair, tangled with leaves. And then she and Peter go home and fuck in the shower. It's big enough for three, she's pretty sure. For next time.

*

But their next date comes after a hard case and they end up on the couch, drinking beer and cheap wine and stuffing themselves with spaghetti and meatballs until they're too full to move.

"I want to fuck you," she says. "I really do. But I think, if I move, I might explode." Neal groans his assent from the floor between her and Peter's knees. Peter snores. "Next time?"

He nods and falls asleep during the next commercial break. She makes it until the end of the movie (_Lethal Weapon,_ her favorite Gibson flick) before she wakes Neal up and drives him home. They've got the guest bedroom set up, though. Space in the closet, fresh sheets on the bed. For next time.

*

And next time, everything works.

Peter makes ravioli with his special sauce, Neal brings the wine, she makes the garlic bread, and when the meal's finished Peter puts Satchmo in the back yard and stands inside the door awkwardly, like an actor who's forgotten what to do with his hands.

It's Neal who makes the first move. He walks up to Peter and she watches them kiss. They've kissed Neal a few times, now. This kiss is confident, this kiss is sure, this kiss is full of promise - and she feels like a voyeur, which has never been a kink before, but - but her boys are beautiful.

"Touch his ears," she tells Neal, and then feels nervous because - because, well, she's never been in a goddamn _threesome_ before and maybe giving directions is against protocol - she just doesn't know. But Neal tentatively brings his right hand up and brushes it through Peter's short hair, then around the edge of Peter's ear, and her husband shudders and she can see his Adam's apple move when he swallows.

"How do we do this?" Neal asks, stepping back. "I've - I've never been in a threeway before."

"Is it a threesome, or a threeway?" she asks. "Or - is there even a difference?"

"We're polyamorous," Peter answers. "What? Stop _staring_ at me, all I did was google it. I do know how to use the internet, you know..."

"Sure, I bet you do a lot of research on human sexuality when you're not updating your facebook - " Peter shuts Neal up by backing him up against the table and kissing him breathless. His hands wander until they're resting on Neal's hipbones, slipping under the edge of his vest. And she wants - she _wants_.

"I vote we move this to the bedroom," she says. "Or we can move to the couch, if that's more comfortable - "

"The bedroom," Neal says, and he lets himself take a moment to hide his face in Peter's neck. Peter holds him, hands still on his hips. El stands up and steps behind him, resting her head between his shoulder blades.

"It's been a while," Neal says. "I'm going to be - I'm really out of practice."

"It's just like riding a bicycle," Peter says.

"Which one of us are you calling a bicycle?" she asks, and Neal laughs. It's muffled in Peter's neck, but it's honest. "How long has it been?"

"Five years," he whispers. "There hasn't been anyone since Kate."

"And - and prison?" Peter asks. Because he's been worrying about it for - well, for the last five years. Since Neal was sentenced.

"Nothing happened, Peter," Neal replies. "They left me alone the entire time."

And she's grateful that he wasn't hurt, not physically, but - no one should be alone for that long. Especially not someone like Neal. "It must have been hard," she says, and he stops her from continuing by turning around and kissing her.

“I don’t really want to talk about that. Not now. Can we – can we go upstairs?”

“Yeah – just give me a minute, okay?” she runs upstairs to get the bedroom ready. She’d washed the sheets but not done much else – hadn’t wanted to jinx it. She wants to make it special, but there just isn’t time. So she lights candles. Scented candles, which, she realizes after the boys come in and scent starts to build up, was probably a bad choice. It’s almost overwhelming – the heat, the smell of vanilla, the way Neal looks in the flickering light.

“Are you sure about this?” Peter asks, one of his hands cradling the side of Neal’s face. She’s not sure what, exactly, is going between them – what Neal’s looking for in her husband’s face, what he finds that makes him nod.

“I’m sure.”

They strip him slowly. Kiss every new patch of exposed skin, every curve of his torso, every ridge of his ribs, every knob on his spine, the hollows of his hips, the dimples of his knees.

When he’s finally naked and lying in their bed Peter straddles his hips, soaking in the reality of him before leaning down to kiss him. She lets Peter take care of making sure Neal’s relaxed and goes to get supplies. The lube and a small strap-on – Neal wanted Peter to fuck him, but it’s going to take a lot of prep. And she – she really wants to fuck Neal.

She sets everything down on the bedside table and starts to undo her bra. Neal stops her. Twists out from underneath Peter, sits up on his knees, and wraps his arms around her. Undoes the clasp and gently slides the straps over her shoulders. Kisses her breasts as each inch of skin is revealed, sucks on her left nipple and rubs his thumb over the right.

“Been so long since I’ve gotten to do this,” he whispers against her skin, lips warm, breath hot. She twines her fingers in his hair and pulls his mouth back onto her breast.

She’s not going to say he’s better than Peter because he’s not, not really. Peter knows exactly what she likes – what kind of pressure, where to lick and where to bite and when to move on. It’s just…it’s been eleven years since anyone touched her so tentatively. Neal’s so _careful_, with his teeth and even with his tongue, licking gently at her nipple.

She’s not in the mood for careful. Her cunt’s wet, it aches every time Neal looks up at her, every time she feels his hands hesitate when he touches her.

She pushes him down onto the mattress. “How do you feel about getting your cock sucked?” she asks, and Neal just moans. “Peter? How do you feel about sucking Neal’s cock?”

He doesn’t say anything, either, but she’s guessing from the way he gets Neal flat on his back and starts stripping his pants off in less than a second that he’s feeling pretty good about it.

Neal’s got a gorgeous dick. Already hard and flushed a pretty red. She runs a finger over it – down the prominent vein on the underside, through the bit of precum budding at the tip. Neal’s hips twitch with each new gift of friction. She grabs a condom. and slicks it onto him carefully.

“Have you done this before?” Neal asks when Peter pushes his knees apart to make room for himself. El shivers when Neal spreads his thighs even farther than Peter’s pushed them. Opening himself up. She can’t wait to fuck him.

“No,” Peter answers. And then he licks the head of Neal’s dick. Just circles it with his tongue, and there’s _no fucking way_ that she’s going to be able to last through this. She starts rubbing her clit. And watches her husband go down on another man.

Neal already looks like he’s about to lose it. His head’s tilted back, his hands in fists by his sides, his thighs shaking. “Hold his hips down,” she directs, “and suck just the head.” Peter nods and sets to carrying out her orders, a look of fierce concentration on his face.

His hands look huge on Neal’s hips. Tan against the soft white skin, covering the swell of his hipbones completely. Neal’s cock is tight against his stomach and Peter leans forward to get the head in his mouth. Neal claps a hand over his mouth to stifle a wanton moan. Peter’s fingers tighten on his hips, he sucks in another inch, she can see his cheeks hollow as he sucks as hard as he can.

“What’s he doing?” she asks, because it’s too silent, with Peter’s mouth occupied and Neal trying to stifle any noise.

“He’s – he’s licking,” Neal moans, writhing under Peter’s hands. “So – he’s so – ” he sobs and tries to thrust upwards, crying out in disappointment when Peter won’t let him move.

“Suck harder,” she whispers, and Neal glares at her for a brief second before he loses all composure. He tries, helplessly, to get Peter to take him in further – but Peter just plays around the head, licking at the tip, teasing him until his whole body seems to seize – Neal starts to come and Peter doesn’t let up.

She comes. Watching Neal try to escape the sensation of Peter sucking his softening dick, his graceful hands covering Peter’s on his hips, uselessly trying to get away. Her husband’s wicked grin around another man’s cock. The twisted expression on Neal’s face, somewhere between _stop_ and _thank you_ and _more_.

Eventually Peter pulls off and takes care of the condom. Then he grabs the lube and starts to finger Neal open. Her fingernails are too long to do it herself. Plus, there’s something incredibly hot about her husband working Neal’s hole, his thick fingers slowly pressing inside of him, preparing him for her.

She doesn’t want to forget this. Neal’s lazy smile, her own quick breath, the way her husband’s back looks in the flickering candlelight, broad and strong and in between Neal’s thighs.

“Kiss him, Peter.” She leans against the bedpost and watches her husband take Neal’s face in his left hand (his right slick with lube) and kiss him with all of his focus. Neal’s hands go to Peter’s elbows, cradling them gently, holding Peter steady as if he’s not quite sure how to kiss back yet.

She loves watching them. Peter’s so hungry for whatever Neal can give them, Neal so heartbreakingly grateful for their attention. Both of them careful to a fault. They’d never get anywhere without her. She pulls on the harness and tightens the straps. “Move it or lose it, mister.”

Peter gives her a quick kiss before he moves behind Neal’s back, supporting his weight. They look good together. Neal’s head resting on Peter’s chest, Peter’s hands protective on Neal’s body, both of them looking at her.

“You ready?”

Neal nods and she presses the tip of the strap-on against his hole. He lets out a shaky breath, she leans forward, and the first inch slides inside of him. It’s – it’s beautiful. She pulls out just to look, again, at how tight he is. Rubs his rim with the head of the dildo until he’s pressing his hips back, searching for more pressure.

She’d started small. She had to; Neal hasn’t been fucked in years. He’s virgin-tight and nervous, spreading his legs so wide with eager shaking hands. The dildo’s small, about the width of two of her fingers and only five inches long. She wants to make it good for him. See how many times she can make him come, see what he looks like worked open and breathless, sweating and dripping with come and hard again. So she’d picked out a dildo with a wicked little curve and a knob at the end that would press right against his prostate.

He opens up so slowly. Shuddering and twisting on their bed, his back against Peter’s chest, their joined hands white-knuckled. She hasn’t fucked anyone since college. She’d forgotten how tempting it is to just push in instead of waiting, forgotten how intoxicating it is to hold someone open and press inside their body.

More lube and more time and Peter distracting Neal with long, languid kisses, her fingers rubbing at Neal’s stretched hole, whispering promises into his skin. _I won’t hurt you, you’re perfect, Neal, you can do this_.

All three of them groan when Neal wraps one shaky hand around her harness and pulls her hips flush against his ass, forcing in those last few inches. She and Peter groan and Neal _writhes_, sobbing and digging his fingers into her hip, holding her still.

“You okay?”

“Neal?” Peter kisses him, runs his hands over the tense muscles of his arms, his clenched abs, while she stares down at the rim of his hole, spread around the dildo. She didn’t often wish that she actually had a cock, but, _oh_, what she wouldn’t give to feel how tight and hot he felt right then.

Neal gives her a nod. A quick, jerky nod, and she starts to move. Just an inch or two at a time, rocking her hips against him, she knows she’s hitting his prostate with each thrust because he gasps every time, eyes big and surprised, lips swollen red from Peter’s teeth.

“God, Neal – ”

She shifts position carefully and leans in to kiss him. Swallows the cry that he can’t hold back when the new angle twists the cock inside of him, when his soaked, hard dick rubs against her stomach.

“You look so beautiful.” And it’s not until that point that he closes his eyes. “Neal?”

“I’m good,” he gasps. “Just – keep going,” and she might not know him as well as Peter, might not be fluent in _Neal_ yet, but his eyes are closed and his lips are pressed tight together and she knows _not okay_ when she sees it.

It’s been five years. Not just – not just five years since Neal’s been fucked, but five years since he’s been touched at all. It makes sense that he’d be overwhelmed. Surrounded by their bodies, Peter’s cock hard against his back, hers inside of his body, so absolutely open and vulnerable for them. It’s a big step from making out in the car to getting fucked in their bed, and she stays still while Peter kisses Neal back into his body. She runs her hands through the sweaty tendrils of his hair while Peter kisses his neck, his shoulders, and finally his mouth when Neal turns towards him like a plant breaking through the undergrowth, yearning and confused.

“Keep going,” Peter whispers.

She moves slowly. Sits up and shifts Neal’s legs, spreads them open on the bed, then holds onto his hips and rocks in and out of his body. After a few minutes Neal starts to press his hips back, taking her harder, urging her to go faster. She meets his gaze and grins and takes it for the challenge that it is.

She fucks him hard. Until the sound of his gasps is masked by the smack of her thighs against his ass, until his grin fades and his eyes close and his head falls back against Peter’s shoulder. He never stops moving his hips, though. Not until Peter starts pinching his nipples. After that it’s a matter of seconds before he freezes, before he’s shaking in Peter’s arms and coming all over himself. His toes curl, from where she’d spread his legs apart, digging into the bedspread. Neal’s sandwiched between their bodies and falling apart in their hands and she rubs her clit, fast and hard, and Peter strokes Neal through his orgasm. She hitches her hips forward when she comes, pressing the dildo against Neal’s prostate again. He gasps in surprise and one last bit of come spills out of his cock.

She pulls out slowly and soothes the sore skin of his hole with lube-slick fingers. He smiles at her as she lies down on the mattress next to them. “Peter came, too,” he whispers with a wicked grin. She raises an eyebrow at her husband, who couldn’t possibly be less embarrassed about it.

“If he made a mess, then he can be in charge of clean-up.”

Neal smiles and Peter groans in mock-complaint before rolling Neal gently onto his side. Neal grins at her, small and a bit shy, still not used to the fact that Peter can move him around so easily. She kisses him as Peter fetches a wet washcloth and cleans them up. He unbuckles her harness and eases it down her legs, kissing her thighs on the way. The bedspread’s still clean and he spreads it out over them before crawling into bed behind her.

The twenty-seventh time Neal kisses her, they are not alone.

After that she stops counting.


End file.
